


Birds Save Their Best Songs for Dawn

by Melo_Mapo



Series: Din Djarin's Secret Network of Past Lovers [4]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (He always does), And a Hug, Din Djarin Needs Repairs, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Pre-Season/Series 01, Strangers to Lovers, off-screen sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo
Summary: When an attractive merchant calls out to him on the marketplace, Din is far from guessing what the night has in stores for him.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Din Djarin's Secret Network of Past Lovers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940539
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	Birds Save Their Best Songs for Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to [CoffeeQuill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/) and [MissTeaVee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTeaVee) for their help proofreading this one-shot! I can only encourage you to go check out their work.

_ “Su cuy'gar, verd.” _

The Mando’a greeting stopped Din in his tracks. Had he heard right, or was his fried audio input somehow tricking him? Slowing down, he approached the market stand the greeting had originated from. A human man stood there, barefaced, and at Din’s approach he exclaimed: 

“I haven’t seen a Mandalorian in years!”

Din looked over the man’s wares: mostly jewelry, a few knives, the occasional ornate datapad. 

“You speak Mando’a?” the bounty hunter asked, wary.

“I was raised Mandalorian, but chose not to swear the creed.”

Surprised, Din raised his eyes to meet the merchant’s gaze, and, with a stab of shame, thought it lucky such a stunning man chose not to don the helmet. Hidden under his own, he let his eyes run along pale skin dotted with freckles, up strong shoulders and past a short, soft-looking beard, to land on pale eyes rimmed by khôl. The man had hair like copper, vibrant locks falling in waves down to his shoulders. It was not often Din was attracted to strangers, but today was one of those rare times. Scrambling for a subject of conversation, he pointed at the jewelry:

“Do you craft these yourself?”

The man smiled and picked up a few bracelets, slipping them on his wrists and waving his arms to show the items off:

“I do! Everything you see here has been either forged or repaired by me.”

Din picked up one of the knives, a much more ornate item than he had any use for, and inspected it. Feeling the merchant’s eyes on him, Din spinned the knife by its blade, throwing it up and grasping it mid-air, testing his grip on the handle. 

“This is well-balanced, for something so…”

Din trailed off, unwilling to offend. 

“Pretty?” suggested the vendor in a low voice, leaning closer with a smile.

Din nodded and the man laughed: 

“I was the Armorer’s  _ ad _ , expected to follow in her footsteps. I don’t have much opportunity to forge weapons now, but I practice the skill still.” 

“Your work is beautiful,” admitted Din.

The metalsmith bowed lightly and gave his thanks:

“ _ Vor entye _ .”

A moment passed, Din wanting to say more but having no excuse nor money to buy any of the man’s wares.

“I can’t help but notice your helmet is damaged. Are you in need of repairs?” eventually asked the merchant, pointing at Din’s head. 

Din raised a hand to the left of his helmet, where his last bounty had aimed a blaster shot that had thankfully only melted his audio input on that side. 

“I am looking for supplies.” 

“I might be able to help with that. And the attacker?”

“Is in carbonite, back on my ship.” 

“Ah. You’re a  _ beroya _ , then, a bounty hunter?”

There was a sparkle in the merchant’s eyes that Din was uncertain about. Crossing his arms, the Mandalorian asked: 

“Is it a problem?” 

The man winked:

“Since you’re not hunting now, no.” 

Din relaxed his stance and the man came around his display. 

“Can I?” he asked, gesturing to Din’s helmet.

“The helmet stays on.” 

“This goes without saying,” scowled the man, spine going ramrod straight, and Din got the distinct impression that he had offended him. 

Din considered apologizing, but the man had already moved on, peering closer, one hand fearlessly resting on Din’s shoulder, poking gingerly at the blackened helmet with the fingers of the other. Up close, he was shorter than Din, compact and lovely under the long, belted tunic he wore. Din’s gut was doing funny twists, and he was torn between the urge to flee and wanting to be closer still. He was still debating what to do when the man stepped back. 

“Would you meet me here when the market closes in a couple of hours? I’ll have what you need, and you can use my forge for the repairs.” 

“The bounty has not been delivered yet. My funds are limited.” 

The man waved Din’s concerns away. 

“I didn’t swear the Resol'nare, but I’m Mandalorian enough to help one who needs it. Use of my workshop will be free of charge. You can pay for the materials I don’t have on hand.” 

Din agreed to the bargain, and watched the man sashay back to his booth before he strode away. He had two hours to kill and a ship hooked to running water. Taking a shower was just the polite thing to do when you were invited into somebody else's home, right? 

\---

At nightfall, Din headed back out to the market, finding the jeweler’s stall quickly. Vendors were packing up for the night, folding their tables, walking away pushing carts and carrying boxes. 

“Lucky you caught me on a market day,” remarked the jeweler as Din approached. 

“I am grateful for your assistance.” 

“Happy to give it! I have not talked to a Mandalorian in almost a decade.” 

Din almost asked about the Purge, but it was not the place to discuss such things, not out here in the open air, as merchants joyously called to each other as they conducted last minute, end-of-the-day trades, food and goods changing hands. 

The smith accepted a box full of vegetables and handed his neighbor a small pendant in exchange, apparently a commission, for which he was thanked profusely.    
“Would you mind?” asked the man, handing Din the box with a winsome smile. 

The metalsmith’s hands were already full of his packed wares, and so the Mandalorian silently took the vegetables, aware he was probably looking a bit silly, banged up armor framed by leeks. He smiled under the helmet, and followed the jeweler home, enjoying the view the whole way.

The home they entered was small, a living and working space all in one room. In one corner, the forge doubled as a hearth for cooking, with one of its adjacent walls the kitchen, and the other the workshop. In the opposite corner was a messy pile of cushions and blankets, likely the bed. The room also contained a table and two chairs along one wall, under a window, and a tub for bathing, currently pushed next to the door and with laundry drying above. 

“I apologize for the mess, I was not expecting guests.” 

The man flitted about the room, turning on lights, putting the breakfast’s dirty dishes in the sink, throwing his dry laundry in a pile within the tub and closing it, plumping up the pillows and straightening the blankets until the bed took shape. All the while, Parjai threw glances at Din from the corner of his eyes, smiling to himself every time he did. Din studiously pretended not to have noticed, wandering in and paying his respects to a small altar instead. A flickering holo of a male zabrak, wearing Mandalorian armor, but his helmet tucked under his arm smiled at him. Parjai had been widowed in the Purge, or not long after, Din inferred from the altar’s setup, and from the casual barefaced attitude. It spoke well of the smith, that he had kept up with the Mandalorian ritual for so long, despite not having chosen the creed for himself. Stepping away from the altar, Din turned to the room, taking it in. It was small, yes, but homey, with rugs on the portion of the floor far away from the forge, and colorful weavings on the walls. Done with his rearranging, Parjai walked up to Din, gesturing him forward. 

“Please, sit, make yourself comfortable.”

Din did as instructed, taking a seat at the table and unequipping his weapons. While the metalsmith pulled the curtains, night having fully fallen outside, the bounty hunter carefully leaned his weapons on the wall next to him, a show of trust. 

“I realize I never asked for your name,” remarked Din.

The metalsmith paused in his work to revive the fire in his forge. Busying his hands with a quick braid, but keeping his attention on Din, he asked:

“Would you have given me yours if I had introduced myself, back in the marketplace?”

Din stayed silent. They both knew the Mandalorian would not have. 

“What about now, as I welcome you in my home?” 

The man opened his arms, encompassing the room with a smile just as wide as his reach. 

“My name is Din,” finally allowed the Mandalorian.

“Parjai,” offered the man.

“Victory?”

“Just so. It was a rough pregnancy, I’ve been told. Is Din short for  _ dinui _ , gift?”

The thought was lovely, and one nobody had expressed before. Paz had teased, when they were younger and got into more tomfoolery, that Din stood for  _ dinii _ , lunatic, but of course it was but a coincidence. 

“I am a foundling,” explained the bounty hunter.

“Oh.” 

A moment of silence, during which Parjai acknowledged Din’s loss, then he exclaimed, as it came to his mind:

“Oh! Are you even human?”

Taken aback, Din said:

“Would it matter either way?”

“No, of course not! Just curious.” 

Parjai turned away and busied himself with the forge again, but not fast enough to hide the blush flooding his face. Din had assumed Parjai to be flirty with everybody, but could he be asking because he had just realized he was attracted to a non-human? Feeling a bit devious, and a bit thrilled, Din silently got up and approached the man. Pitching his voice low, he leaned to the man’s ear and said: 

“I am fully human, I hope it’s no disappointment.” 

Parjai leaped most satisfyingly, but lost no time in grabbing Din’s wrist and shouldering him aside. The Mandalorian was too well-trained to fall to the hurried catch, but did groan in surprise. 

“Stars, don’t surprise people like that near a burning forge,” yelled the metalsmith, a hand on his heart.

Din took a few steps back, stopping when he felt the edge of the workbench at his back.

“I apologize, I did not think this through.”

“I might not have sworn the creed, but I take pains to maintain the training,” chastised Parjai. 

“Is this town dangerous?” wondered Din.

“No more, and no less, than any other Outer Rim city. The business is good, that’s what matters.” 

Parjai took a big breath and, his nerves apparently settled, made his way to Din and the workbench. 

“Now, I don’t have any beskar, but thankfully your helmet has retained his integrity from what I could see. We should be able to pop out the melted mess of an audio intake you have in there, and replace just that. I’ve got soder ready to go for the circuitry, and I can melt and forge a bit of durasteel if we need a part I couldn’t find. How do you want to proceed?”

Din had thought about it during his wait. He had hoped the workshop to be a separate room, so he or Parjai could be isolated. 

“With guidance,” Din said slowly. “I can probably do the repairs myself.”

Parjai rubbed his chin, pondering the situation for a moment before proposing:

“If I can take a close look at the helmet, it is doable. How about we set a screen up, I inspect the helmet, pass it back to you, then we switch places?”

Din shook his head no.

“I’m sorry, but it’s too risky. I trust you, but I have too much to lose.” 

Parjai accepted the refusal with a nod and an even more pensive face. After a moment he asked:

“What if you blindfold and bind me, place the helmet in my lap, then lift the blindfold while standing behind me? I take a good look, you put the blindfold back down, and go on to do the repairs. Once you’re helmeted again, you free me.” 

Ignoring how appealing the mental image of tying Parjai down was, Din answered in his most neutral voice: 

“I would be comfortable with that. But what about you?” 

“You’re  _ mandokarla _ . Swear you’ll untie me, and it’s good enough for me.”

Din turned to Parjai, offering his hand. With a smile, the metalsmith grasped the bounty hunter’s forearm in the traditional Mandalorian greeting. 

“ _ Haat, ijaa, haa'it _ ,” swore Din, and they shook their clasped arms once.

“Now, just don’t ask why I have these.” 

And Parjai proceeded to pull from under his bed a coil of black, soft rope and a silky blindfold. Resisting the urge to tease, while also acknowledging the whole situation was not leaving him indiferent, Din took the rope, but let Parjai place the blindfold on himself after sitting on one of the kitchen’s chairs, pulled further into the room. Din removed his gloves, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t pull anything too tight. The rope was soft, with little give. Perfect binding rope. Putting the blindfold on seemed to have cut Parjai’s power of speech, so Din asked: 

“Are you ready? I’ll tie your hands in your lap so you can manipulate the helmet a bit.”

“Sounds… sounds good. Go ahead.” 

Din approached and gently moved Parjai’s arms in the right position. The man sighed and relaxed at feeling Din’s bare hands and the bounty hunter was glad of having removed his gloves. Once Parjai was in the right position, Din weaved the rope around his arms and torso in a simple restraining pattern. The Mandalorian knew some more elaborate knots, but it’s not like he was going to be far. Should Parjai actually try to escape, Din would be right there to stop him getting really far with it. 

“Parjai, can you test the give? Tell me if it’s too tight.” 

The man wriggled. 

“It’s good.”

“Will you let me know if it gets to be too much?” 

“You will be done with the repairs before this perfect ropework becomes an issue.” 

“You can’t even see it,” protested Din, resisting the praise. 

“I can  _ feel _ it,” countered Parjai, something pleased and warm in his voice.

Unwilling to take this in a direction they had not discussed, Din deemed it wise to break the mood. He awkwardly cleared his throat and ignored the heat in his cheeks.

“If you are ready, let’s start.” 

“I’m ready,” confirmed Parjai. 

Despite all the precautions, Din’s heart kicked up a notch as he lifted his helmet off. Taking a deep breath, Din blinked to get used to the slightly different quality of the light. The room smelled like the fire from the forge, and a bit like the fried meat Parjai had had for breakfast. Taking one step forward, Din brought himself to stand behind Parjai’s chair. The man tensed when feeling his looming presence, but relaxed when Din leaned over and dropped his helmet in the man’s lap. Din straightened up, moving back just a bit. He delicately lifted the blind. 

“Go on,” he said, “you can look.” 

Din took note of the shiver running down Parjai’s body at his words, and left his hands on the metalsmith’s shoulders as he opened his eyes. A second passed, suspended, before Parjai shook himself out of it, and peered down at the helmet. His hands were tied to his thighs at the wrists, allowing his fingers to explore and turn the helmet. 

“You got lucky, it doesn’t look too bad.” 

Parjai used his thumb to rub off the blaster shot’s soot, revealing the intact beskar underneath. He then flipped the helmet to look inside it. 

“You will have to remove the padding here. Beneath is going to be not just the audio, but also the visual processor circuits. You will have to lift that off, then remove the part of the intake that turned to slag.” 

Din reached over Parjai’s shoulder, careful to keep his head back, and carefully peeled off the padding while Parjai held the helmet. He was thankfully very familiar with his helmet’s anatomy, having been taught by the Armorer how to do field repairs to it. 

“Do you think any of the audio intake will be salvageable?” he wondered. 

Parjai turned the helmet to look at the outside again.

“I doubt it. The shot went in pretty deep. Good thing it was angled, or it would have traveled the conduit straight to your brain.”

“Is that actually possible?” asked Din, horrified his helmet might have such a weakness.

“Unless somebody shoots you point blank, exactly on top of the five millimeter-wide input, it’s very unlikely. That guy must have been either extremely lucky, or very close.” 

“She was both,” admitted Din, “She drew faster than I anticipated.”

“Well, good for you she aimed for the helmet instead of the neck.”

“She did not aim, she pulled the trigger by reflex when going unconscious.”

“Ah. Well. Good thing she was out, your head must have rung like a bell.”

“I am still waiting for my hearing to fully come back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I mean…” 

Din laughed, not offended in the slightest, and Parjai joined him before going back to inspecting the helmet, pointing out the few more things he could. 

“You will have to figure the rest out yourself, I’m afraid,” finally said Parjai with a sigh.

“This is already much more than I was hoping for,” admitted Din. 

The Mandalorian gently lowered the blindfold again, and took back his helmet before heading for the workbench. In the brief time they had known each other, Parjai had come through as a lively man, always moving along with his words. To see him subdued in body and voice was strange. Feeling a bit awkward, but wanting to check the man was alright, Din asked:

“Would you talk to me as I worked?”

“Talk to you? About what?” Parjai sounded soft, but present. 

“Whatever you’d like.”

Parjai hummed to himself as he thought. Din got to work on his helmet, starting with stripping the broken components. Once he had gathered his thoughts, Parjai started a story that quickly grew familiar. It was, like many stories, about a woman and a man. They both were soldiers in opposing armies, stranded in a deep forest. They fall in love without knowing each other’s allegiances, and upon reuniting with their armies, struggle with being on opposite sides. Eventually, the woman tries to fake her death to get discharged from her military position, but having not gotten the memo about her plan, the man believes her dead and kills himself. Upon waking she finds him dead, and kills herself as well. 

The story was a classic one, often told in the  _ karyai _ , the Covert’s central room. Parjai’s version had quite a few more dirty details than Din’s childhood recollection, but it was the teller’s prerogative to change the narrative as they wished. Or at least, that’s what Parjai argued when Din commented Parjai’s liberal interpretation. Din got quiet again when it came to placing the new components in the audio conduit, unwilling to risk messing up the job for flirty banter, however pleasant it was. Parjai started another story, another remixed classic, and Din kept working, carried by his voice. It was slow going work, requiring intense concentration and precision, two things that did not come to Din naturally as far as mechanics were concerned. The Mandalorian was so focused, it took him a while to realize Parjai had trailed off.

“Parjai, are you ok?”

There was no answer, and Din put the soldering iron down before turning towards the man. Din repeated his question, a bit louder. 

“I... yes, yes, I’m here,” Parjai said, sounding dazed.

“You fell silent.”

The man shook his head, and his voice was firmer when he said:

“I apologize, it has been a while since I have been… tied. I did not expect to react so strongly to it.”

Din was not sure what was going on exactly, but Parjai did not sound distressed, more like he was waking from a deep meditative state. Still, the man had been sitting, bound in ropes that did not allow much movement, for over an hour. Din offered:

“I can finish tomorrow, there’s really no need to be uncomfortable on my behalf.”

Parjai laughed softly:

“Uncomfortable? Oh, Din, to the contrary, I am enjoying myself immensely. Maybe a bit too much, really. It’s the release of responsibility you see. To be at your mercy, yet to know nothing bad will happen. It allows me to drift, to feel safe.”

Din, taken aback, was silent for too long.

“Did I offend you?” worried Parjai.

Din hurried to reassure him:

“To the contrary! Parjai... it means a lot to me, that you place such trust in me, a stranger.”

“Ha, but you are no stranger. I knew your heart the moment you answered my greeting.”

Din feeling humbled and incredulous in equal measures, deflected: 

“Parjai, you are either a fool or a sage.”

The man laughed: 

“I’m a fool, no doubt, but hopefully not about you.” 

Unable to help the smile to came to his face, Din told Parjai:

“Regardless, I wish I could repay your kindness. Is there something I can give you?”

The response was instant and hopeful: 

“Your full name?”

Din thought about it for a moment. While keeping his identity secret was important, the likelihood that Parjai, not a Mandalorian, but not an  _ aruetii, _ a foreigner, either, would somehow compromise him and the Covert was low. The small-town jeweler would, after all, not know much else about Din outside of his name. 

“If I have overstepped, I apologize. I don’t need to know your name,” said Parjai. 

“Djarin. My name is Din Djarin.”

“Din Djarin,” repeated the metalsmith with relish, “this is a good name.”

Din thanked him, and they basked in each other’s silence for a while. Eventually, Parjai sighed, and said: 

“Well, Din Djarin, where are you at with your helmet?”

Din turned back to the workbench, looking at the mess of parts, circuits, and soder. 

“Everything is connected where it needs to, but I still have to place everything back where it belongs. Can you endure for a while longer?”

“I can.”

The rest of Din’s work went quickly. He put the helmet on to check that everything was fine, and crowed in victory when all the displays came up correctly. 

“I take it your repair was successful?” asked Parjai, a smile in his voice. 

Din walked to him:

“It was, thank you.” 

With gentle hands, Din lifted the blindfold. Parjai blinked, his blue-grey irises meeting Din’s visor.

“Hullo,” he said, and smiled. 

“Hey.”

Din got to work on the rope, coiling it back together neatly once Parjai was freed. The metalsmith went to stand up, but fell back in his seat. 

“Do you need help?” 

Parjai looped his arms around Din’s shoulders and snuggled to his chest plate. 

“Ah, yes. Could you...ah… carry me to bed?”

Thanking his helmet for hiding his blush, Din slipped his hands under Parjai’s legs and stood up, bringing the man with him. The metalsmith was short but stocky, and utterly delighted at the Mandalorian’s strength. Din gently lowered him on the bed, and Parjai snuggled in the blanket and sighed in pleasure.

“Are you alright?” asked Din, surprised by the man’s behavior.

“Oh sorry, I always get a bit loopy after sessions. It will take awhile for me to come down.” 

“Sessions?”

Parjai nodded, a soft smile on his face, working on undoing his braid, copper hair spreading over the pillow in a halo.

“Uh uh, with the rope. Binding sessions. Haven’t done it in a while.”

“Should I be doing something more?” asked Din, suddenly worried he had not met Parjai’s standard for the recreational tying he apparently enjoyed. 

“Oh. I could use water, a snack, and… cuddles, if you’re up for it?”

Parjai was wiggling, taking his belt and tunic off, and so Din felt compelled to ask: 

“What kind of cuddling are we talking about here?”

Parjai chuckled:

“Mostly chaste. I’ll keep my underwear on and probably fall asleep in minutes.”

“Should I stay the night?”

“Oh, yes, of course, I assumed you would, sorry. I’ve plenty of pillows, we’ll make it comfy for you and your helmet.” 

“What about the forge?”

“The fire will go to embers on its own. No worries there.”

Following Parjai’s pointing and instructions, Din gathered food and drinks, dug out a straw out of a back drawer for himself, and brought it all back to the bed. Parjai then directed him to retrieve even more blankets, as well as a mysterious wooden box. They ate and drank, Din sneaking the finger food under the edge of his helmet. When they were done, Parjai cleaned his hands, unlocked the box, and pushed it towards the Mandalorian. Intrigued, Din wiped his hands as well and opened it. 

Staring at him was a half set of whistling birds. 

“Parjay… Did you forge these?” asked Din, dumbfounded.

“I did. I told you I practiced my mother’s teachings, once in a while. Took me about five years to get my hands on enough beskar to make this many.”

Din picked one up carefully, looking at it closely, appreciating the craftsmanship. They were perfect, as far as he could tell. He placed the diminutive weapons back in its case.

“They are beautiful,” he said, awed, meeting Parjai’s gaze.

“Thank you. It’s not a full set, but I’d like you to have them.” 

“Parjai, it would be an honour, but I can’t. I haven’t earned the honor from my Armorer.”

“Oh.” 

The metalsmith lowered his gaze, looking disappointed. 

“Let me make it up to you?” offered Din.

Parjai nodded, and Din closed the box before gingerly taking it back to its shelf. He then cleared the bed of the food, leaving the drinks within reach, turning off the lights on his way back to the bed. Left with only the streetlight sneaking in beneath the curtains to reveal him, Din got started on removing his armor. 

“Oh. Is this show to console me?” teased the metalsmith. 

Din shook his head no, removing his layers until he was down to his  _ kute _ , his bodysuit.

“I remember cuddling being mentioned,” he said, before sitting back down on the bed. 

Parjai immediately shuffled to make space for him, patting the spot with the most pillows.

“Here, will that be comfortable enough for you to sleep?” he asked. 

Din acquiesced, unwilling to reveal he had slept fully armored in much less comfortable settings. He settled down, opened his arms, and Parjay tucked in close, head pillowed on Din’s arm. The bounty hunter found himself rhythmically running his fingers through Parjai’s hair, something that drew contented sighs from the man. The metalsmith fell asleep only a minute before Din did.

\---

The curtains were open, yet only the bleariest of morning light illuminated the room when Din awoke. After a moment of confusion, he relaxed into the bed, adjusting the pillows so he could turn his helmeted head towards the room. Parjai was up and active, moving back from the workbench to the forge.

“Are you working this early?” asked Din, voice rough with sleep.

The metalsmith jumped slightly, before turning to him, smiling:

“Birds save their best songs for morning.”

“Sorry?”

The man went back to the workbench, and bent over his work while explaining: 

“It’s a saying from around here, meaning people do their best work before the heat hits. You’re lucky, this is our wet season, you’d have fried in that armor in the dry season.”

Din dozed on while Parjai worked, not ready to face the day after the late night. When finally he felt awake enough to try and emerge from the bed, Parjai was done and coming back to it. He had put away his work apron and gloves, and it seemed he had not been wearing anything but underwear underneath. Swallowing and feeling overdressed in his  _ kute _ , and of course his helmet, Din sat up.

“Parjai?” He asked a bit strangled as the man slipped back under the covers and plastered himself to him, as they had been the night before.

“Now, I was a bit out of it last night, but if you’re agreeable, I’d love to take advantage of the early hour and stay in bed a bit longer.”

Din laughed, arousal pooling in his gut, his hands already running up and down Parjai’s back without input from his brain.

“I would be extremely amenable,” he said.

—-

It’s not until much later, as Din was paying for repairs on the Razor Crest in a different system, that the bounty hunter found something tucked away in his credit pouch. It was a token, the kind the planets in this sector used for barter, except made of platinum. Engraved on it, an inscription in Mando’a read:  _ Good for a gift of Din Djarin’s choice, to be redeemed at the workshop of Parjai Wren.  _


End file.
